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skin and bones

If I was who you wanted me to be, would you still love me?
If I had been exactly who you wanted me to be, would you still want me?
If I had listened to every word you said, would you still hear me?

I wonder about the silliest of things. Like how a person could disappear and leave their ghost behind. Still haunting when their corpse has long been buried. I am suppose to move on and forget, but I can’t help but reflect and remember. If I had been a fraction of those expectations, would you still give me a chance?

I changed my ways to accommodate your wishes. I changed every aspect of myself to make yourself better and still you wanted more. I wasn’t the change you expected. I wasn’t who you expected me to be. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if I had been exactly what you wanted me to be, would you still want me. I would have bled myself dry, if it meant that this would work. I would have stopped the madness hurting inside, if it meant you would stay just one more day.

How you flocked to the girls with their skin stretched over their bones. How you loved the illusion of this skeleton of a body and fixated on the ideas of that perfection. The countless nights, I counted meals and accounted for every last calorie. Would that be enough? How the extra calories could be slept away or purged until the obsession starts all over again. The illusion of being perfect and the risk of losing it all. I couldn’t control the monster of madness inside. I couldn’t control the obsession of hurting, all for being exactly what you wanted me to be. I begged, I pleaded, I cried, and still you stood so tall. Ordering your demands and I couldn’t help but want to do everything, just to make you stay. It was never enough. Your words flew out like venomous rage, still here to haunt me. I was never your perception of perfection. No matter what I did, I was never enough. You liked me, but you loved her. You cut me down but raved about everyone else’s perfections. I purged every last bit of my insides and you stood tall counting on my imperfections. It wasn’t enough that scratching the surface never deepen the cut. How foolish to believe that if I had been every word of what you wanted, I would have you.

Skin heals, cuts fade and eventually all the bricks you threw at me, will rebuild the little foundation of life I see. You disappeared and buried every last bit of who we used to be. You didn’t count on your ghost being left behind to haunt the remains of a memory. I loved you and all you ever did was bring me down. Took my sadness and devoured it into madness. Maybe we are all just a little mad, but some worse off than others.

You liked me but you loved her. How I always thought otherwise. If I were skin and bones would you love me in the end? If I purged ever last bit of you out of me, would I finally let go of you? If you hadn’t met her, would you still want the same from me?